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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29911005">Midnight Memories</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgay_milktea/pseuds/earlgay_milktea'>earlgay_milktea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - 1950s, Fluff, Greaser Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), M/M, Meet-Cute, Nerd GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), dream with a leather jacket, we love to see it</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:48:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,582</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29911005</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgay_milktea/pseuds/earlgay_milktea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His thoughts are drowned out by a distant rumble, so deep and guttural that he feels it down to his bones. He fumbles with his glasses, almost dropping them, but manages to put them back on—</p>
<p>Just as a black motorcycle rounds the corner.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>251</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Midnight Memories</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When the cafe closes, George gathers his books and takes to the streets. The city is quiet at this late, miserable hour, and George walks quickly along the sidewalk, his footsteps sounding too loud for comfort. </p>
<p>He planned to finish up his schoolwork in the library — but then he got sidetracked, spiralled headfirst into another tangent, head buried in a book, and he only snapped out of it when the librarian tapped him on the shoulder to inform him that they were closing. He searched for a cafe to unobtrusively study in for a few hours, but it was barely an hour before they, too, were closing, and George just needs this essay done, goddammit. </p>
<p>The rain catches him off-guard. One moment, it’s just him, passing by another closed storefront, the dim glow of streetlights illuminating his path, and the next — a cold drop lands on his nose. </p>
<p>He steps under an awning. The city was awash with the things, big striped cloths that covered tiny storefronts, boutiques where an outfit cost more than a kidney. George always feels too frumpy for them, but he loves their shirts too much to completely steer clear. </p>
<p>As the minutes tick by, the weather shows no sign of changing. George thinks he might hear thunder. He huffs out a frustrated breath when he realises his glasses are also fogging up. He takes them off and wipes at them with the hem of his sweater. It does nothing more than smear the rainwater, and George makes a bitten-off noise of frustration. Why can’t <em>anything </em>go right for him today? </p>
<p>His thoughts are drowned out by a distant rumble, so deep and guttural that he feels it down to his bones. He fumbles with his glasses, almost dropping them, but manages to put them back on—</p>
<p>Just as a black motorcycle rounds the corner. </p>
<p>It brings a roar so loud that it rattles George right to his core. The machine is all clean lines and polished chrome, and the amber streetlights streak like orange flames across it, flint catching on steel. It’s dangerously close to the sidewalk, dangerously close to <em>George,</em> and he takes a step back when it draws nearer, because he knows about greasers, he’s heard about their fights and street races and whatnot and he knows better than to bring attention himself, but he can’t help but take a look. </p>
<p>He drags his eyes up.</p>
<p>The greaser is looking back. </p>
<p>His eyes are wide and startlingly green, framed by sandy locks, and there’s a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks, visible even in the low light. He stares back at George with something akin to wonderment, something that smoulders and drips like warm wax, and it catches somewhere in George’s chest, a spark struck alight against his ribs. </p>
<p>And then the greaser blinks. Just blinks, and then<em> smiles</em> at George, something so sharp and incendiary in the slant of it, and George is but a moth drawn to a fire—</p>
<p>The motorcycle skids. The greaser wrenches his gaze away, his expression quickly morphing to alarm, and George watches with his heart in his throat as the bike comes within an <em>inch </em>of barrelling off the road and right into an empty storefront. Thankfully, it swerves just in time, and George lets out a shaky sigh. </p>
<p>The greaser cuts the engine. He dismounts, visibly shaking, and George is running to him before he can think better of it. </p>
<p>“Hey!” he calls. “Are you alright?”</p>
<p>The cold rain hits him like a slap to the face, and he suppresses a shiver. How can anyone be out in this weather, let alone ride a motorbike? How can anyone bear all that water and wind in their face? <em>Well,</em> George thinks, glancing at the leather jacket spanning the greaser’s shoulders, <em>perhaps leather provides better insulation than sweaters? </em></p>
<p>Ironically, the longer he stares, the warmer he feels. </p>
<p>The greaser parks his motorbike curbside, and heaves a deep breath. When he turns to face George, there’s a distinctly strained look to him, a lingering note of alarm, but once he gets his hands off the clutch and shakes them out, he seems alright. </p>
<p>“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, I’m fine.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” George says, more of an exhalation than a word. “That’s — good.”</p>
<p>The greaser pulls off his gloves and stuffs them in his pocket. “What’s your name?”</p>
<p>George barely manages to stutter out an answer; he’s too busy looking at the greaser’s hands. “I’m George.”</p>
<p>“You had my life in your hands for a moment there, George.” The greaser says George’s name like he’s savouring the taste of it on his tongue. His gaze roves over George, the weight of his scrutiny is a tangible thing, but it doesn’t feel invasive, like the stares of strangers often do. If anything, it feels appreciative. </p>
<p>A blush prickles over George’s face like rose thorns. He hopes to God that it isn’t noticeable. “And you are…?”</p>
<p>“Dream.”</p>
<p>A laugh escapes George before he can help it. He claps a hand over his mouth, but Dream looks more amused than offended.</p>
<p>“I get that a lot,” he says, easy as anything, and that’s when it clicks for George: this greaser isn’t trouble. George is probably as far from danger as he can possibly be. Something settles in him, and tension drops out from his shoulders, a weight that he hadn’t even noticed he was carrying.</p>
<p>The rain fades away. George barely notices.</p>
<p>“It’s getting late,” Dream says. He doesn’t phrase it like a question, but George catches on nonetheless.  </p>
<p>“I was working on an essay,” he says, fidgeting with the strap of his bookbag. “Lost track of time.”</p>
<p>“Nerd,” Dream says, but it doesn’t sound like an insult. If anything, he makes it seem like a compliment, especially with the way he’s grinning, showing just a subtle gleam of canine. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off George.</p>
<p>“It’s due tomorrow, and I can’t work on it at home,” explains George, overcome with the urge to fill the silence, to distract himself from the way Dream’s looking at him, “my sister — uh, older sister — told me she’d be bringing her boyfriend over tonight. And our parents aren’t in town at the moment.” He lets that hang in the air for a beat. “So yeah. I don’t plan to go home right now.”</p>
<p>Dream glances around, taking in the almost-empty streets, the shuttered storefronts. “I get that,” he says. “I have an older sister too. But you shouldn’t be out here alone.”</p>
<p>George makes eye contact with Dream. And says, slowly and deliberately: “I’m not alone right now, am I?”</p>
<p>A chuckle rumbles out of Dream. “I guess not,” he says. “But you’d better find somewhere else to stay safe. I won’t be here forever, pretty boy.”</p>
<p>A smile steals over George’s face, too sudden for him to suppress it. He looks down at his shoes, flustered, and Dream must pick up on it, if the way he inches closer is any indication. <br/>“Have you had dinner?” he asks.</p>
<p>George has, actually, but it’s gotten so late that it doesn’t even matter anymore. “No.”</p>
<p>“How ‘bout I take you to a diner?” Dream says, drawing closer still. “Keep you safe and whatnot.”</p>
<p>George has to tip his head to continue looking Dream in the eye. He’s just too — tall. It’s annoying. “I haven’t got a single dime on me.”</p>
<p>“That’s alright. My treat.”</p>
<p>George huffs out a laugh. “Is this you asking me out?”</p>
<p>“You could say that,” says Dream. Then he takes off his jacket and settles it on George’s shoulders. It’s warm and buttery-soft, smelling of soap and leather. And something else, too. Something sharper, spicier that George can’t identify. It’s probably Dream himself.</p>
<p>Dream gives him a sweeping once-over. A corner of his mouth flutters, and something dark and hot coalesces behind his eyes. “Looks good.” And before George can react, a helmet is being tossed in his direction, which he catches on reflex.</p>
<p>George clutches at it, dazed. “What…?”</p>
<p>“Are you coming or not?” Dream asks, and slings a leg over his shiny gunmetal motorcycle like it’s effortless.</p>
<p>He’s already revving the engine, and it thrums to life as George scrambles to put his arms through the jacket sleeves, realises he’s got his bookbag in the way, takes it off, and starts the whole process all over again. He half-expects Dream to get bored and drive off without him, but Dream doesn’t look bothered at all.</p>
<p>Finally, George puts on the helmet and gingerly climbs on behind him. It’s startlingly intimate, pressing his chest against the back of a near-stranger.</p>
<p>“You’ll have to hold my waist,” says Dream. And when George tentatively brings an arm around Dream’s waist, the greaser is already saying, “No, like this.” He grabs George’s hands and locks them around his middle, encircling him so seamlessly that George can feel the thrum of their heartbeats.</p>
<p>He thought his own heart was going crazy, but Dream’s pulse is running wild.</p>
<p><em>Cute,</em> thinks George, hopelessly endeared.</p>
<p>“This your first time?” asks Dream, once they’re all settled and snug.</p>
<p>“First time what?”</p>
<p>“On a bike.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“Thought so. There’s nothing to worry about.” Dream pulls at the clutch, and the bike responds in kind, its rumble rising into a roar. He glances back, eyes touched by moonlight, something ruinous in the glint of it, a sly little crook to his smile as he says, “I’ll go slow for you.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is dedicated to 404cord. also my beta reader alice, who helped me with cool dream dialogue. love u all </p>
<p>if you liked this, please consider checking out my other dnf works!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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